One Shots of the Caribbean:  Missionary & Mermaid
by idle curiosity
Summary: A series of one shots set during On Stranger Tides, so consider the spoiler aspect before you read.  All will be about Philip and Syrena, but in no particular order.  I put the rating at T, to be safe for future content.
1. Chapter 1

_Word prompt - **humble**_

Those who remember their first encounter with Philip Swift, the young missionary assigned to their small Caribbean island, recall his idealistic fervor for spreading the Gospel.

He was rather full of earnest, righteous zeal, but a little lacking in humility, and compassion for the human condition, most said.

Young Mister Swift would arrive at a village or hamlet, and stay a week or so to plow the spiritual field, as it were, by talking to anyone and everyone about the Lord, before giving an oftentimes blistering sermon on Sunday. He would then move on to the next town on his circuit.

Then he disappeared for awhile. No one knew where he was, or what had happened to him. There were a few that were worried, when he didn't come back at the prescribed time. After all, the island wasn't very large, and there weren't that many villages to make up his mission field. A few of those of the more Christian persuasion sent out a search party, but came back with neither the young cleric, nor a clue as to where he could be.

Weeks later, he walked into the village as if he'd never been missing, leading a donkey loaded with his supplies - food, water, feed for his animal, a valise of clothing - all the things that an itinerant missionary usually had with him.

He gave no explanation for his absence, when questioned. He simply quietly refused to talk about it. There was something in his eyes, though, that gave the townsfolk pause, a curious mix of sadness and wonder and joy. But, they decided, it was his story to tell ... or not.

He went right back to plowing the spiritual field, talking to people about the Lord, but things were different. Gone was the aura of earnest, righteous superiority that only the young and inexperienced with the realities of the world can adopt. In its place was humble uncertainty. Not about his faith in his God, to be sure. But in the certainty in his mind that he knew all of God's secrets, and all of God's ways, and that the many vagaries of the human condition were all so simple, really.

He changed his circuit a bit too, after he came back. It still consisted of villages along the coasts, but with fewer forays into the not well populated interior.

He was never afraid to get his hands dirty during his usual stay before his Sunday sermon. He helped out wherever he could, especially down at the docks. There was one job, however, that he refused to do. He wouldn't mend the nets. Quietly, but firmly, he refused. Wouldn't give a reason, but the dark look that would come into his eyes was enough for the fishermen to never ask him more than once.

While working the docks, young Mister Swift would often get a faraway look on his face, and sometimes he'd simply stop whatever he was doing to stare out at the sea. It was a lonely look. Maybe he was missing someone special back home in England, they thought. But, every once in awhile, he'd be watching the waves and the tides, and he would suddenly smile. It was stunning, the way his features would light up, as if he'd just seen that special someone again. It was positively joyous.

A right curious thing, that.


	2. Chapter 2

_Word prompt - __**help**_

For as long as he could remember, he has always wanted to help.

It was one of the reasons why he became a missionary. From an early age, he knew God, loved God, and wanted to assist others in coming to know Him and love Him as he did.

That desire to help had also manifested itself in other areas of his life.

He has a kind heart, his mother would say fondly. He has _too_ kind a heart, his father would reply in exasperation.

He would often get into fights as a boy, coming to the defense of someone smaller or weaker who was being picked on by others. Sometimes he made a difference, sometimes he made no difference at all, other than to end up sporting a split lip or a rather spectacular black eye himself after all was said and done. His mother would fuss over his hurts, his father would lecture him on the folly of taking on boys greater in size and greater in number.

He would bring home injured animals, too, when he was small. If one of them died, he would be shattered at the loss. His mother would hug him, dry his tears, and tell him that sometimes his help just wasn't enough to overcome the circumstances. His father would raise his eyes to heaven, and open his mouth to lecture once again, at which point his wife would glare him into silence over their son's bent head, and motion him out the door with a sharp sweep of her arm.

He could still remember his father taking him, when he was all of seven or eight years old, to watch one of their mares give birth. Opening the gate of the holding pen, he was led in to quietly observe the event for the very first time.

He was fascinated, and more than a little appalled, watching the horse pant with the exertion, sides heaving with each contraction, streaming with sweat. When at last she gave delivered a fine foal, it was the most astonishing thing he'd ever seen. His father moved in, and began to brush the sticky membrane off of it with a handful of hay, while the mare licked at it as well with long swipes of her tongue.

Then, the most incredible thing of all happened. The foal got shakily to its feet, as his da retreated to give it room. And it promptly fell down, unable to keep its legs.

That was all he'd needed to see. He rushed forward, eager to help, planning to wrap his arms around the tiny thing and keep it steady when it attempted to get to its feet again. As he streaked past, his father grabbed him by the waist with both hands, and swung him back out of the way.

"Hold on, Philip," his father admonished. "Hold on."

"But it can't stand up on its own, Da," he cried. "I want to help."

His father shook his head, and for once he simply talked to his boy.

"You know, son, not everything needs your help," he said quietly. "Just stay back and watch."

Retreating together to the far end of the pen, they saw the foal again shakily get to its feet. It stumbled quite a bit at first, but the longer it went on, the steadier it got. Soon, it was moving over to where its mother stood, and putting its nose under her, began to suckle. It never stumbled again.

He grinned up at his father, clearly delighted.

"You see, Philip? It was born to walk right away, so it didn't really need you. Your mum is right, you do have a kind heart. You just need to learn to know when your help is necessary ... and that perhaps sometimes it's not necessary at all." With that, he put an arm around his boy's narrow shoulders, and led him back to the house.

His father's words came back to him now, as clearly as if he were speaking them in his ear, as he roughly pushed his way in between the men at the sound of shattering glass and spilling water. He came to an abrupt halt at the sight of the mermaid lying on the ground, the shards and splinters of her broken prison all around her. Quick, floundering movements of her tail did nothing but emphasize her helplessness as she awkwardly struggled to turn over.

When she did, and she sat up, all he could do was stare with the others as she wrapped her arms around herself. Her tail began to seemingly melt away, leaving exposed a pair of slender, velvety pale legs. Completely vulnerable, she pulled them up to help hide her breasts, to hide herself, really. She stared at the ground, breathing anxiously, fear in every line of her new body.

There were the beginnings of sniggers from the other men, and lewd whispers that made him quickly strip off his vest and shirt. He knelt behind her, hearing her involuntary gasp as he wrapped the rather worn lawn material closely around her. He could feel her tremble beneath his hands as he hovered over her, trying to shield as much of her as he could from prying, lust-filled eyes.

"You will walk."

They both raised their heads to see Blackbeard watching them impassively. He met the pirate's stare with disbelief. His own gaze hardened for a moment, before he looked away, knowing that she must do as he said.

_You just need to learn to know when your help is necessary._

Slowly, so as not to frighten her further, he put his arms around her. As he had once wanted to do all those years ago, when he'd watched a floundering, ungainly newborn foal fall after trying to stand for the first time, he guided her to her feet, his gentle hold steadying her. When she seemed to have her balance, he backed away a pace, carefully releasing her from his grasp.

She took her first shaky step, and just like that foal of so long ago, she promptly fell onto the dry fronds that had fallen from the palm trees to litter the ground, her newly formed legs lacking the strength to hold her up.

"I cannot," she said despairingly, hunching over.

"Walk or die," the pirate shrugged.

He could hear the ring of a sword being pulled from its scabbard as he quickly knelt by her side once more.

_She was born to swim, not to walk. She needs you._

"Put your arms around me," he said urgently, his voice low.

"I do not ask for help," she turned her glare from Blackbeard to him, anger and stung pride warring in her gaze.

"You need it," he replied quietly.

For a long, long moment, they simply stared at each other, before resignation filled her eyes. Slowly, reluctantly, she slid her arm around his neck. Her skin was moist and cool, and as velvety soft as he had somehow known it would be. His breath caught at the silken feel of it.

She wouldn't look at him as he rose to his feet, ducking her head to stare resolutely at the ground instead. She seemed feather-light in his grasp.

"We're in a hurry, yes?" he demanded, not caring that his dislike of the pirate captain and his distaste for the whole situation was heavy in his voice.

"Do not fall behind," Blackbeard warned before turning away, unperturbed by his antagonism.

He adjusted his grip on her, and unconsciously rubbed a quick, reassuring hand on her shirt-covered arm.

Sometimes, he thought, as he fell in line to walk behind Angelica and her pirate father, he just didn't understand himself. This girl had attacked him, yet he'd felt guilty when she'd stared up into his eyes, the hurt of betrayal - _betrayal_ - in her own when he'd pinned her down with his sword and she was then captured. She was a mermaid, one of the beautiful, darkly terrifying creatures that had brutally killed so many of his shipmates, yet her plight tugged fiercely at his heart, and he couldn't let her be killed when she couldn't walk on her own. She was deadly, yet he couldn't turn away from her.

One thing was clear to him, though, as he strode on through the sticky, oppressive heat, holding her in his arms. She needed his help. And he would give it.


	3. Chapter 3

A look at the time between Philip freeing Syrena, and her finding him again as he lay dying.

_Word prompt - __**regret**_

_I'm going to die._

He lay on his side at the edge of the pool, exhausted and weak, his body instinctively curling itself around the mortal wound to his belly. He could feel his blood seeping from the slash as he tiredly pressed his hand to it, unable to stop the now sluggish flow. Vaguely, he felt the pain of the useless effort, and bemusedly thought that the agony of it should be much worse than it actually was. The gash under his fingers was long and deep. He refused to look down at it, quite unable to bring himself to confront the reality of the horror that lay beneath his hand. Not yet.

He wondered if he could somehow find the strength to get to his feet, and leave this place of mermaid death. The only thing he'd managed to do thus far was to pull himself back from the water's edge. He couldn't seem to do more than that.

He hadn't ever imagined that his life would end this way.

He'd never really thought about his own eventual death all that much. Even as a missionary, he was barely into his prime, and it seemed that it was so far in the future. Something to be ready for, always, but at the same time not something to worry about now.

"The young - they never think they'll die," his father used to say.

At best, he'd held some vague notion of maybe dying a martyr for the cause of Christ. Or, more often, he'd imagined lying in his bed, having lived a long, fruitful life, with a wife, children and grandchildren at his side. There would be whispered prayers for the Lord to receive his soul, and loving goodbyes as he went to be with his God. His sins having been forgiven long ago, and his conscience clear, he would be free and joyous as he walked through the gates of heaven and up to the throne of grace.

But now, his death was inevitable, and he found he wasn't ready for it. He couldn't die. Not now. Not like this.

He gave a wordless sound of anguish. When Blackbeard and the pirates had come upon them, and they took her tear of joy, he knew what it looked like. He saw the expression on her face, before they bound her here once again, the remains of her mermaid sisters all around her. He knew what she thought. He saw so clearly the disillusionment and betrayal in her gaze when she stared up at him.

"Syrena! On my word, I had no part in this!" he begged her to understand, to believe him. To somehow know that they had used his love for her against them both. That he would never have agreed to such a cruel act. That he couldn't ever have willingly have participated in this.

They forced him away, and tied his hands, and his only thought had been to wait for his chance. When it came, he sawed frantically at his bonds with the blade of a fallen sword, before the cabin boy of the _Queen Anne's Revenge_ appeared before him to cut them with his knife. Seeing the boy then set upon, he'd intervened, and the slice of the sword over his belly was an agony beyond anything he had ever felt before.

Stumbling, he managed to regain his feet. Pressing his hand to the wound, he staggered away from the fight and back to the pools, losing blood with every step. But it didn't matter. If it took all he had, he would free her.

When he finally got to her side, he feared he was too late, that he'd taken too long. Falling to his knees, he touched her in every way he could, before snapping the hated bonds that held her. In his terror, he thought her more human looking, that with approaching death her features had somehow become less otherworldly.

And he, who had never petitioned his Savior in anything other than the most humble and reverent of ways, _told_ God what He would do. Ordered his Lord that He would not take her. Demanded that He give her back. Until he was quickly reduced to almost incoherent pleas, and he at last begged God for her life.

_Please ... please ..._

Finally, she opened her eyes to gaze at him, and desolation rose inside of him. He could see nothing in them. There was no joy, no forgiveness, no love. She looked away and, with a quick twist of her body, returned to the water, the wellspring of her life. The last of his strength gave way as she disappeared. He fell forward, desperately reaching for her. But his hands were empty.

She was gone.

Now, clutching his wound again, he ground his forehead onto his other arm, as he lay on the unforgiving rock. He'd sacrificed everything to save her, willingly given all he had.

Yet he found he wanted one more thing.

He wanted a chance, just one last chance, to make her truly understand that he had nothing to do with the plan to take her tear. To ask her forgiveness for his part in her capture. To tell her that he didn't just care for her, that he didn't just _fancy_ her. That he loved her.

And he would never get it.

Restlessly, he grit his teeth against the pain of knowing that she would now always think him to be as all other men ... that she would now always believe that she had been wrong to find him different. He would never be able to change it.

_Dear Lord, please, I don't want to leave this earth with that on my soul._

Wearily, he raised his head to look around, finally managing what now seemed to be feat of monumental effort. He shuddered at the sight.

The skeletal remains of Syrena's mermaid kin hung in front of him, suspended between their own heaven and hell, left to die the agonizing death of being in the water, but not enough water. He had to turn aside.

He couldn't manage to regain his feet, so he began a slow, torturous crawl away from this place of misery, thinking to try and reach one of the other pools.

_I'm going to die, but it won't be here._


	4. Chapter 4

_Word prompt - __**Bible**_

A missionary shouldn't be without the Word of God.

When Philip Swift had returned, after being missing for so long, the townsfolk noted the absence of his Bible almost immediately. After all, he'd carried it with him everywhere, before he'd disappeared. Got it from his mum and his da, he'd said with a smile.

When asked what happened to it, he only replied, with a curious expression on his face, that he'd lost it.

There's a story there, they all agreed.

He'd come to love God at an early age. As he grew older, it was a love that strengthened, to the point where he felt that there was a calling on his life to become a missionary.

His mother had been torn between being immensely proud of her son's commitment to God's work, and being worried about him eventually being so far away from home. His father, a less religious man, but one who loved the Lord nonetheless, had simply hoped that his son would come to realize that he could serve God just as well in England as he could in another country.

That was not to be, however, and they both became resigned to the fact that they would one day lose him to the foreign field.

His father was the one who broached the subject to his wife. If Philip were to become a missionary, he'd need a Bible. How could he preach and teach the Word of God without it?

At that point, unbeknownst to him, they quietly began a fund to buy him one. Every spare shilling they could muster was set aside for this most important of purchases. It took a long time, but eventually they had enough to make a secret trip to the booksellers. What they could afford was not much. Rather small, it had a leather cover with a simple cross tooled onto it; the pages were plain, the type unembellished in any way. But they were as proud of it as if it were the grandest Bible in all the realm.

When they presented it to their son, he became very quiet. He opened it carefully, turned the pages almost with awe. Then he closed it again, and with stinging eyes he hugged his mother tightly, whispering his thanks. He turned to his father, and gave him the quick embrace that most men give to each other in times like these. He promised them earnestly that he would take most excellent care of it.

Whenever he had a spare moment, after that, he studied. Over time, the pages became rather dog eared. It would fall open to certain favorite places as the binding loosened. When it became too loose, he would make a trip to the booksellers to have it repaired.

His Bible went with him when he at last took his leave of his beloved home - with tears on his mother's part, and practical advice on his father's - to join the mission field in the Caribbean. He carried it always, many times tucking it into his shirt to try and protect it from the elements.

It was with him at Whitecap Bay, when the mermaid was captured. Afterward, finding it soaking wet from the time he'd spent in the sea, he worried that it had been ruined. But there was no chance to carefully open it and let it dry under the hot Caribbean sun. He had to settle for easing it back into his pocket, trying not to damage it any further, and hoping for the best.

The journey inland to find the Fountain of Youth was an arduous one. The fresh, cooler breezes of the open sea gave way to the close, oppressive heat of the tropical forest. He'd never been more uncomfortable, and thought longingly of the snows of England. There was a certain irony in this, given the fact that he actually hated snow.

As they traveled, he found himself slowing down to look behind him more and more often. The mermaid he'd wounded, and they'd subsequently captured, was now confined to a coffin-like prison of wood, glass and sea water, carried on the shoulders of the three zombies and Scrum. There was barely any room for her to move. She would twist and turn, pushing against the sides or pressing against the top, looking for any means of escape. He could hear occasional oaths from Scrum when her movements caused his grip to slip. After a while, she seemed to have given up and now simply lingered below the waterline, her expression sad and bewildered.

The more they walked - the more he turned back to see her plight - the more out of sorts he became. He was hot and tired and increasingly irritable. He wished that they would just stop for a while, telling himself that all he needed was a drink of water and a bit of a rest.

He was ready to sing hosannas when the pirate captain finally ordered them to halt at a small stream. He immediately fell to his knees next to it, and cupping his hands under the flow, splashed his face and the back of his neck again and again, sighing with relief at the coolness.

"Clergyman," he turned away from the water to see Jack Sparrow come up next to him. The pirate sat down and got right to the point. "On the off chance that this does not go well for me, I would like you to note it–hearing now–that I am fully prepared to believe in whatever I must, and be welcomed into that place where all the goody-goodies want to go once they pop their clogs. Savvy?"

So Jack is not at all certain regarding the outcome of this venture, he thought a bit cynically, and he seeks to curry the favor of the Lord, just in case things should go awry. Well, he certainly wouldn't be the first to try and do so, just one of the more openly shameless ones.

"We have a word for that, Jack," he replied, shaking his head in slightly amused exasperation. "You could convert."

He then turned to once again look over his shoulder at the mermaid, and the smile on his face faded.

Something was very wrong with her. Before, during the long trek, she'd lingered under the water, seemingly having given up trying to force her way out of her prison, but she'd been alert, completely aware of her surroundings.

Now ... now she looked to be _dying_. She floated above the waterline, clearly trying to take in air, feebly pushing against the glass with her hand. She was almost unconscious, as her body began a slow turn away from him.

He came quickly to his feet.

"She can't breathe," he cried out, alarmed.

The others turned to stare at him at his outburst, but no one made a move, other than look from him to the mermaid and back at him again.

"She needs air!" he shouted, as he ran over to her prison.

"I support the missionary's position," Jack offered helpfully, as he remained at his place by the stream.

Dropping to his knees, he frantically ran his hands over the iron lock, looking for any sort of way to undo it. Finding none, he turned to look up at the quartermaster. "Open it!" he demanded.

"She will escape," the zombie said in his laborious voice.

"You're killing her!" he snarled, rising to his feet again.

He'd watched her have a net thrown over her head, and been congratulated by Blackbeard for being instrumental in her capture. The pirate captain's approval had left him feeling vaguely sullied, but he'd held his tongue. He'd stayed quiet, too, when they put her in her wood and glass prison, telling himself that she was a mermaid, and they were dark, dangerous creatures that should be locked up. Yet, all during their journey through the tropical forest, he kept turning back again and again to watch her linger in an inadequate amount of water, and her plight weighed more heavily on him with each step he took.

Now, she couldn't even breathe.

It was obvious to him that no one else cared one whit about what was happening to her. But he did, and he was not going to stand by and do nothing. Not this time.

Lunging forward, he yanked the heavy cutlass from the scabbard that hung at the quartermaster's waist. Turning away, and evading the zombie reaching for him, he quickly thrust the blade into the space near the lock and gave it a vicious twist, praying all the while that the cutlass had been well forged, and wouldn't snap apart in his hands.

The lock gave way under the pressure, and the lid lifted a few inches, letting in life-giving air. The mermaid rose up with a gasp, and put her nose as close to the opening as she could, taking in quick, deep breaths. Her relief was palpable.

For a moment, he could feel himself matching her breathing with his own. His attention was riveted on her, but out of the corner of his eye, he could see the quartermaster moving towards him. He swallowed hard as he turned to face the threat, knowing he stood no chance, before discerning that the zombie's intent was only to take back his cutlass.

He knew a moment of panic. With the blade gone, the lid would close and the mermaid would soon be in the same position that she had been in just moments ago. Fumbling in his pocket, he pulled out the only thing he could think of to put in the place of the cutlass ... his Bible. As the quartermaster took back his blade, he quickly pushed the Bible in the space, effectively keeping the lid from falling shut again. He stared defiantly up at the zombie, but the creature merely turned and lumbered away.

His shoulders slumped, and he gave a sigh as defiance drained into sweet relief. Turning back to her prison, he could see that the mermaid was watching him. Their eyes met for a long moment, and he could feel a sudden tightening in his chest, something that he didn't want to give name to. He broke their gaze and turned away, leaving his Bible where it was - holding the lid open and allowing her to breathe.

Philip Swift eventually obtained another Bible, a gift from a member of one of the congregations on his circuit, something he was extremely grateful for. Standing in the pulpit one Sunday not long after receiving it, he held it up.

"The Word of God is the bread of life," he said.

He smiled as he thought of a broken wood and glass prison, lying somewhere on a tropical jungle floor. And next to it a small, well-loved Bible with a simple cross tooled into the leather cover.

"Sometimes, it is the very breath of life."


End file.
